


Clarity

by OutWithIt



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: (Not Between Tagged Pairing), Abusive Relationships, Aged-Up Character(s), Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dom Tony Stark, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Good BDSM Etiquette, Misguided and Uninformed Kink as Self-Harm, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker-centric, Platonic BDSM, References to Depression, Self-Harm, Sub Peter Parker, Subdrop, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark-centric, Undernegotiated Kink, no explicit sex, self-harm by proxy, still better than 50 shades
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:14:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28854120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutWithIt/pseuds/OutWithIt
Summary: Tony's rocky introduction to BDSM certainly left an impression on him. Later, he gets curious when he starts to notice some things about Peter.[read tags for CWs]
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. In the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> CWs: themes of depression, self-harm, unsafe kink, dicey consent stuff (a note on this next chapter, but it's definitely here, too)
> 
> Here's the first fic I'm posting in my glorious journey to finally get these documents off of my computer. It's different from a lot of the other stuff I write, but I figure a blank account is a good a time as any to get this out into the world. 
> 
> There's a whole spiel about proper BDSM that I have typed up already. It'll be posted with the next chapter, but for the time being (and I hope this is fairly obvious) know that this is not a good or healthy way to explore kink. Far be it from me to try to tell strangers on the internet what to do with their lives, but if you're interested in kink, please take the time to research and approach it properly.
> 
> Also I didn’t realize this is essentially the plot to the backstory of 50 shades until after I wrote it. I have not personally partaken of the 50 shades and have only a passing knowledge of the plot, so it truly did not occur to me until I was finished and I was like, oh oops. This is better than 50 shades, I promise. Almost 100% less sex but at least 85% better overall.

Tony’s in graduate school before he hits his final growth spurt. Unfortunately, even in that last push he doesn’t manage to gain much more height, but before it he’s still waifish and baby-faced and visibly walking the tightrope between jailbait and barely legal. His particular brand of budding handsomeness and apparent naiveté works in his favor in a lot of cases, getting him dates and favors and even a few extra credit points after a memorable evening with his biochem TA. His looks also occasionally seem to catch the wrong kind of attention, and he gets lured into some…eccentric circles that he wouldn’t have found otherwise. They catch him at a moment of weakness, really, because one day he’s (relatively) fine, and the next his parents are dead and he’s sad and angry and people with less than pure intentions can read that like a book all over his pretty little face, his wide, puffy eyes and pouty lips and tear-stained cheeks still soft and smooth. 

They offer him a way to escape, somewhere to forget himself for awhile, and Tony is immediately intrigued. The way the idea is first introduced to him, pitched like a questionable business idea over cheap vodka with a once-upon-a-time one-night stand who somewhere along the way has become Tony’s biweekly standing appointment for a rough fuck, has him skeptical at first. It doesn’t sound pleasant or entirely above-the-board, but there’s a chance it just might work. He’ll try anything at this point. He’ll take any beating someone’s willing to give him, if only for the chance to escape the yawning chasm of emptiness that’s snuck in where his guts used to be.

As it’s happening, he thinks his first scene goes brilliantly. (That is, before he loses the ability to think and everything just becomes _sensation_ ) He wouldn’t say he enjoys it, per se. The guy’s some rando, not even the person who invited him to the venue to begin with (who himself happens to be only a vague friend of Tony’s aforementioned established fuck buddy), and Tony’s a little too scared and a little too drunk to be able to voice how he feels about trusting someone so cold and impersonal and faceless with his body. It hurts, but that’s supposed to be the point, isn’t it? That’s what these people get off on. A couple of wires crossed in a spaghetti-mess of brain tissue and pain mutates into pleasure. Tony’s a freak—he’s known that for a long time—but he begins to realize somewhere between the paddle and the flogger that pleasurable is pretty much at the very bottom of the list of adjectives he’d use to describe this experience. Frankly, it hurts like hell. The falls lick like fire across his back, probably a smidge too close to his kidneys to be entirely advisable, and he finds himself unable to catch his breath between one blow and the next. 

It’s distracting, and it’s _perfect_. The pain becomes all-consuming, drowns out his feelings, his anger and anxiety and the clawing sadness. For the first time in his entire life, his brain is empty, like his head’s a teapot and his thoughts have been poured out of his ear to make room for the throbbing agony.

He cries. He cries when Nameless Faceless is hitting him and he cries harder when he stops. He’s mostly done crying by the time he locates and puts on his button up in the dark and empty dampness of the private clubroom, although he admits his eyes water when the fine linen whispers across the welts and bruises blooming across the still-narrow plane of his shoulders and upper back. He starts crying again when he makes it home, dumps himself in bed above the covers still fully dressed, and he doesn’t stop crying as he shudders until his muscles cramp and sieze up like an unmantained engine.

He doesn’t fall asleep for several hours, but he can’t find it in himself to get up and out of his clothes, at first because he’s hurting and then several hours later because the numbing sadness has started to creep back in around the edges, despite the pain and the alcohol still making his head fuzzy. Fuck, he thought he’d found a viable solution; upleasant though it had been, the experience had left no time to dwell on his parents or the mess his life has dissolved into since they’d died. It appears the respite this particular activity offers is only temporary, the strongest effects having faded the minute Tony was no longer actively being hit. There’s nothing to be done for it not; he’ll have to sleep it off and re-examine the experiece with a fresh head later.

He finally drops off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, still wearing his tight jeans and button up and contorted on the bed to take pressure off of his wounds. He’d found that lying on them, pressing on them, as long as he does it hard enough brings about a flash of pain that whites out his thoughts for a couple of seconds. It’s a promissing development, but the continued stimulation is not condusive to sleep.

Waking up is disorienting and laborous, and Tony puts it off multiple times, falling back asleep when the prospect of facing the concequences of his actions seems like too much effort. He’s finally what could charitably be called awake a bit after noon, groaning and wincing as he struggles to first sit upright and then lever himself out of bed. He should have thought to pop some ibuprophen on his way into the bedroom last night; he’s experienced enough with hangovers to know that straight off. He’s not hungover now though, this is a different kind of pain-shame-regret than he’s used to dealing with. He shucks his wrinkled, sweaty shirt and prods experimentally at a bruise peeking over his shoulder. It doesn’t hurt as much as it had last night, but the harder he presses, the more effective the distraction.

He finds no messages on his phone, despite the fact that he’d given his number to both of the men involved with his little escapade last night. That’s fine, it’s not like he’d expected them to call. Maybe it’s awkward to talk to the people you beat up the next day. Everything always looks different in the daylight.

He carefully avoids his reflection in the mirror above his dresser.

Getting up and walking to the kitchen to make himself some lunch is slow going, and gives him plenty of time to reflect on his actions. For sure the shame and regret are there—he has a bit of a _complex_ , after all—but it’s not going to stop him from going to that club again, finding someone else to beat him up. It had _worked_ , unfortunately fleeting though the solution had been. He’d felt nothing but pain: real, tangible pain, not the stupid made-up pain that his thoughts and emotions cause him. 

He makes some calls, asks around. His bruises have barely faded by the time he next goes to a new club. This one is smaller, darker, and seedier, scouted out on recommendation from an acquaintance of a friend of a previous hookup. _The guys there go hard, hit harder, don’t ask too many questions_ , he’d said.

It sounds _perfect_.

* * *

Tony’s generally a smart guy, but sometimes it takes a bit for all the gears to spin correctly. It takes him almost a year and several dozen nights out before he realizes something’s rotten in the state of Denmark. To be fair, he’s usually focused (understandably, he’d like to think) on himself and his own agony when he’s out and about. But one night is a bit slower than usual in the pulling-people-he’d-like-to-beat-him department, and he happens to look around at some of what’s going on around him.

Now, he has no idea what he looks like during these sessions. There’d been one that time where his partner had conducted their business with Tony situated in front of a mirror, but he’d kept his eyes closed the whole time, too horrified at the possibility of confronting his own vulnerability and pain before he was hurting enough to not be able to see beyond the diffusing blur of tears in his eyes. The visual details of these trysts remain a secret unknown to him, living in the haze and gloom of the darkened clubs and darker corners. So taking a look around feels voyeuristic, although he supposes that’s allowed here. 

He scans the room, holding his drink, intending to look for potential partners although he can’t help but notice the occupied pairs and groups around the space. The hurters and the hurtees. The hurt _ers_ look powerful, vindicated, consumed with righteous power. (Where the hell did _that_ come from? Is this really only his second drink?) The hurt _ees_ , Tony’s peers, look supple, relaxed, blissed-out, even as they writhe on the floor or in restraints or under their partners, backs and asses blushing bright red and hot. They look happy, self-actualized, even as they cry out in pain and whimper with overstimulation.

Tony doesn’t know what his sessions look like, but he’d bet half of his considerable inheritance that he doesn’t look anything like that. He’s always a mess, groaning and shuddering through the pain. Even if they end up fucking, which happens fairly regularly but less often than one might expect, he’s usually not enjoying it on any concious level, too distracted by the renewed waves of agony as his bruised back is slammed into the ground or mattress. 

Somewhere along the way (and, if he’s entirely honest, realatively close to the beginning of this misadventure) he’d forgotten that people actually enjoy this. He just…doesn’t. Can’t.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong. Maybe he’s not a good enough parter, and that’s why he can’t seem to find someone willing to hurt him regularly, has to keep searching and pulling someone new whenever he gets that itch. It’s been happening more and more frequently with greater intensity, and it’s getting more and more difficult to wait for the bruises to fade sufficiently between sessions. (He’s been denied before, when he’d shown up with an ass still painted in deep purples and yellows) If he’s spent hundreds of dollars on arnica and bruise creams, and even begun research for his own remedies in order to expedite the process, that’s between him, his ass, and God, thanks so much.

In any case, this invites further research. If he can figure out what’s different, where he’s regularly coming up short where all these other people are succeeding, maybe he can finally settle down with a regular partner. Maybe he can actually learn to enjoy it. Dare he to dream?

* * *

Things reveal themselves to Tony slowly but surely after that. It starts with an inkling that he’s not been landing the best or most attentive of partners, and it ends up with the realization that he’s been doing this backwards the whole goddamn time. Really he should have seen it sooner, should have recognised the attraction he’d felt towards the subs (the submissives, another thing that no one thought to stop and explain to him at any point) that first night he’d thought to take a look around. He hadn’t only appreciated them, he’d lusted and longed after them, but had felt no kinship or undersanding. He’d actually discovered he related more to the doms of the scene, reveling in power and control. (Of course, when he finally decides to act on this knowledge, he ensures he’s a much better dom than he’d ever had. Posessive and powerful, sure, but also attentive and appreciative and concerned.)

Turns out, there’s this nifty thing called subspace, and he’d never not once been in it, because he’ not a goddamn sub. Funny what a little research and reading can get you. All of those subs he’d seen that night had looked different because they’d actually (presumably, hopefully) been enjoying what they were doing, what was being done to them, instead of just using others as a tool to hurt themselves and numb their other pain. (Sometimes, Tony thinks he maybe should apologize to his past partners for using them in that way, but the thought is short lived, because they probably knew what was going on and even if they didn’t they didn’t ever call or check in so fuck them all, honestly.)

So it’s been a long and arduous journey over several years, but Tony eventually arrives in a much more knowledgeable and healthy place than where he started. He gets some real goddamn therapy in there at some point, and he feels lucky that the rocky start didn’t spoil the scene for him permanently. It takes awhile after his big Oh Shit I’m Actually A Dom realization and the little coming out party he throws for himself for him to feel comfortable and confident enough to go to a club again, but once he does, it’s glorious. He feels every thing he’d noticed about the doms that one night. He still has to tred lightly and he has to screen his partners carefully based on how confident he is that they’ll let him know if something is wrong, but he’s healing. 

* * *

Part of what gets him out of Afghanistan is the startling realization that, while he’s scared and in pain, this isn’t even the worst he’s been hurt (tortured), and he’d _asked_ for it before. (That works until the whole chest-surgery-in-a-cave debacle, and after that it’s just stubbornness and terror that help him through.) 


	2. And Then

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Parker enters the Picture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: relatively minor consent issues in this part. I think it's handled okay, but if non-sexual consent is an important concern for you, see end notes for a slightly spoiler-y warning about the situation.

Tony has known Peter Parker for five, almost six years at this point, having watched him grow from a self-concious, awkward fourteen-year-old to the confident, self-assured nineteen year old he is today. The kid leads a busy life, taking a full college course load, Spider-manning when he can, and somehow still finding the time to swing by the compound to work in the lab with Tony and socialize with the rest of the team. Apparently, he somehow has enough free time to fit some more adult extracurriculars in there somewhere. Tony might be old and creeky and mostly out of the scene now, but if it somehow is revealed that Peter _isn’t_ partaking in some flavor of kinky fuckery, he’ll eat his left shoe.

It’s little things here and there mostly which first spark Tony’s curiosity and ultimately give Peter away; telltale bruises half hidden beneath a shirt cuff or collar, the way he sometimes sits tenderly on his lab stool, other days electing to stand. And yeah, it feels a little gross and pervy to be so suddenly aware of Peter as a sexual being, but the kid’s nineteen, and it’s not like Tony’s the one fucking him. It’s fine, but there are days like today that Tony’s consumed with a burning curiousity about what he actually manages to get up to. No doubt it’s an artifact of Tony’s suffering when he was Peter’s age. He knows that not everyone—not even _close_ to everyone—who gets involved in kink gets treated the way Tony had, but even the thought of Peter being hurt like that makes his stomach churn.

It’s Sunday: supposedly a holy day of rest but science never rests, and with their increasingly hectic schedules it’s becoming more and more difficult to find shared lab time during the week. Peter had bounced into the lab chattering about an experiment he’s running in one of his courses, his eyes just this side of overbright and pupils slightly blown with what Tony easily recognises as the clingling remains of subspace. It’s a freakishly small detail to notice, and it feels voyeuristic in the bad and bordering-on-nonconsensual way that Tony knows this at all, but the veritable hell that he’d endured upon his introduction to the scene means he’d become finely attuned to the tells of his parters and the people around him. He can tell who’s been scening recently when he’s in meetings, walking the city, sometimes at SHIELD if God (or Thor, maybe? He’ll have to ask how that works one of these days) decides to give him a little treat for actually showing up for a debrief. It’s a handy and sometimes entertaining sense, but it’s not like he can turn it off, even if he’d like to to protect Peter’s privacy.

It’s not the first time he’s noticed this about Peter. It’s been long enough since that first time that the feelings of surprise and ickiness have mostly died down in his stomach when he thinks about it. (Tony is the very last person who would kinkshame anyone, but sometimes he still looks at Peter and sees a fourteen-year-old kid. It’s not fair to Peter, who’s done more growing up in the last five years than most people do in twenty. Tony’s working on it, he swears.) He muses sometimes that it might be a bit unprofessional of Peter to come to work still a little out of it—it is a kind of high, after all. But he’s not going to say anything; he’d hate to embarrass Peter and he’d hate even more to make him think that Tony is forbidding him from indulging this part of his lifestyle just because their busy schedules mean that work sometimes bleeds over into times that should be reserved for play. 

Plus, it’s not like the kid is _impaired_. He’s a little glassy-eyed, but he’s still as sharp as ever. Like right now, he’s going on about his efforts to isolate cations in a mystery solution as part of his midterm as he sets his stuff down as his desk and gets his station set up. 

“That’s great, Pete. I did that same assignment when I was in second year chem, too. Of course, I was four years younger than you…” Tony teases, earning himself a faux affronted scoff. 

There’s an easy lassitute that clings to Peter when he’s like this. Tony’s…he’s not attracted to it, that’s not the right word. Maybe _comforted_ is closer. And pleased. Tony likes to see Peter relaxed, content. He deserves every good thing in the word, happiness and tranquility included, in whatever form he can find it. The very fact that Peter can still manage to feel nice, after everything he’d been through, is reassuring. It restores just a little bit of Tony’s faith concerning the justness of the universe.

“Not all of us can be silver spoon legacy babies, _Tony_ ,” Peter snipes, head rolling to shoot Tony a look lazily over his shoulder. It’s nice to hear him comfortable enough to tease Tony, to finally use his first name without hesitation. So, yes, maybe it’s a bit unprofessional, but Tony’s not going to say anything about Peter’s current state.

* * *

Tony convinces Peter to stay for team dinner. It doesn’t take much convincing, really, because Peter’s metabolism is still a bitch even though it seems to have calmed down now that he’s mostly through puberty. Still, he’s busy and he doesn’t always remember to eat when or as much as he should. 

It’s impossible to say what does it; there’s always so much going on in the dining room when they all have dinner together, and Tony’s attention is always split what seems like several dozen ways trying to keep track of everything. And maybe nothing causes it, per se, but what is clear is that easygoing, teasing Peter from the lab has, at somepoint over the elapsed twenty minutes of the team dinner, become withdrawn, silent Peter.

Tony can’t say when it happened, either, only that he caught the altered posture out of the corner of his eye between finishing his lasagne and reaching for the salad bowl. It’s a bit eerie, if he’s honest; not only the speed and intensity of the shift, but the fact that, now that he looks closer, he can’t say confidently that he’s seen Peter quite like this before.

At the beginning of their relationship, Peter was jittery, nervous, shy. He was withdrawn, but in a much diffferent way than he appears to be now. Now he looks…absent. Something about the rounded shoulders, the far-off look in his eye, his subtly trembling hand where he valiantly attempts to twirl spaghetti prickles something in the back of Tony’s brain. 

Whatever the problem is, it’s fair to say that the kid looks pretty uncomfortable, maybe bordering on miserable, sitting at the table. It makes sense; he’s always been a private person as long as Tony has known him, and he hates feeling like he’s being a burden or drawing attention to a perceived weakness. Thinking fast, Tony decides he needs to come up with a plan to get them both away from the table while arousing the least amount of suspicion.

Well, he’s got _an_ idea. Whether or not it’s a _good_ idea…

“ _Shit._ ” He decides to go for it, prays that Friday’s been coded well enough to somehow anticipate his intent and not contradict him to blow his cover. “I just remembered that I left the partical accelerator on in the lab. Pete, can you help me handle that real quick? Two person job, ya know.” Friday stays blessedly silent.

“Is that genius speak for, ‘I think I left the oven on?’” Clint giggles, pausing briefly in his heroic effort to shove as many varieties of pasta in his mouth as possible.

Peter for his part looks mildly confused—he clearly knows that Tony wasn’t working with the PA earlier, but he must pick up at least a portion of what Tony’s attempting to put down, because he nods and stands up, follows Tony to the elevator without blowing the charade.

The doors glide closed, but Tony orders the elevator to a halt before they can ascend all the way to the lab. Now with a captive audience, he takes the time to really examine Peter. It’s telling that he doesn’t look alarmed or confused at the apparent deviation from the plan. He looks…not good. Weary and absent but also vaguely panicked and wired. It’s an odd mix, but it’s so familiar. Tony still can’t put his finger on why he’s so concerned, only that on some instinctual level he is.

Well, he could always just _ask_. 

“Alright, Pete. What’s wrong?” It’s a tricky tone to master. He searches for a balance between levity and genuine concern, knowing coming off either too serious or too teasing will spook the kid, one leading him to believe that Tony isn’t actually interested, and the other leading him to believe that he’s causing trouble.

Peter shakes his head, smacks his lips and clears his throat. “I, uh. I’m alright, Mr. Stark.”

Oh, back to Mr. Stark now, apparently. Tony doesn’t care for that development at all, just like he doesn’t care for the fact that now that he’s so close to Peter, he can practically feel the way the air vibrates off of his trembling skin. He looks pale in the bright, concentrated light of the elevator. Maybe he’s sick.

“Uh-huh,” Tony answers, his disbelief clear in his voice. He takes a step towards Peter. “You don’t look so hot. Mind if I…” he makes to reach towards Peter’s face, and when he doesn’t protest, completes the action, laying the back of his hand gently against his forehead. 

It’s the last piece of the puzzle, because Tony immediately notices two things, the first being that Peter’s skin is clammy under his hand. It would be another piece of evidence for the sick theory, if not for the other thing that Tony notices. The second Tony’s hand connects with Peter’s forehead, the kid _melts_ into the contact, leaning heavily into Tony’s hand. A soft, sad, desperate sound leaves Peter before he can think to hold it back. It sounds to Tony like so many nights spent curled around a partner, of sharing breath and trust, of those moments of peace he found only after he’d managed to find himself. 

It _clicks_ , and suddenly, Tony is thrown so far out of his depth descision-making wise that he might as well be drowning.

There’s a reason that Cap’s the team leader, the strategist, the plan-maker. It’s because Tony overthinks and agonizes about any descision that appears to be at least a little bit important to him. He can choose a restaurant for take out night or a shirt/tie combo in the morning just fine, but when things actually matter, all of the factors, all of the what-ifs just immediately consume and paralyze him.

And now is no different, because Peter’s pretty fucking important to him.

So, what to do about their little predicament? It’s obvious now that the kid’s dropping; his clammy skin and reaction to being touched evidence enough in light of all Tony knows about him and the fact that he was at least a little bit down when he came into the lab earlier. Tony also knows, if he can strong-arm himself away from his overprotective mother hen instincts for just a second, that outright _telling_ Peter that he knows that isn’t necessarily the best course of action. It would be easiest and most consensual to go about solving this on equal footing and with mutual understanding, but Tony can just imagine how badly he would have been tempted to skip town if, at nineteen, his mentor had butted in with intimate knowlegde of the particulars of his sex life. Not to mention the fact that Tony has no idea what kind of dynamic Peter’s involved in. Statistically based off of his age and the busyness of the rest of his life, Peter probably hasn’t had time to develop a more traditional, strict dynamic, but there’s a chance that he’s a part of some of that old-world protocol and any interference from Tony would constitute a violation to the terms of the relationship that Peter has with his partner. (Or maybe partner _s_. Great, if the thought of _one_ person hunting Tony down for trying to steal their sub wasn’t unpleasant enough…)

But still, the kid’s obviously not doing great, and something’s gotta be done about that. Tony thanks Thor’s ancestors or whoever for providing him with a big, wrinkly brain that can do lots of thinking between one thought and the next, because he’s pretty much wrestled up a plan before the hand he still has on Peter’s forehead can’t be explained away by genuine but unassuming concern.

He pulls back and frowns, only now seeing how Peter has tensed up, assumingly as a result of realising how subby he’d sounded earlier. “You feel kind of clammy.” Peter tenses all over again. Tony affects a frown, like he _just doesn’t know why that could be_. “Do you think maybe your blood sugar is low?” Peter relaxes noticeably in a whoosh. Not a big whoosh, not completely, but he goes from Thanksgiving-dinner-with-the- _other_ -side-of-the-family to placing-an-order-at-a-new-cafe levels of tension in a single breath. He thinks he hasn’t been found out, and that both further confirms Tony’s suspicion and reassures him that he made the right call not spilling the whole can of beans. 

Peter nods and shrugs. “Yeah, that’s probably it,” he allows.

“Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a candy drawer in the shop with your name on it.” It’s a perfect plan, Tony muses as the elevator descends down to the garage and his workshop. It gets Peter in a private place so Tony can look after him and also in case he, like, has a breakdown or something, and the sugar will, in all liklihood, actually help a little with the drop. 

The shop is much more lived in and cozy than the lab upstairs, and Tony steers Peter to the small napping corner he set up. There’s a ratty couch that he gestures to for Peter to sit down on, plus a little kitchenette from which he retrieves a variety of candies and a chilled bottle of water, dumping the lot of it in Peter’s lap. 

Peter greedily guzzles the cool water, only stopping when he’s finished half of the bottle to tear into some chocolate and go to town on that, too. Tony has to look away because now that he knows what he’s looking at, the signs of _sub in distress_ are all over Peter, and it’s hard to stand back and not do anything to help.

He _is_ helping, he has to remind himself, by providing the candy and the water, by giving Peter space and privacy. He’s doing as much as he can justify he’s allowed to do, but it’s a special kind of sorrow that settles in his chest when he looks at Peter and sees the echoes of his own young self. Tony’s fairly certain that he’d never properly dropped because he’d never been able to reach subspace, but the lonliness and pain he sees in Peter’s eyes is achingly familiar.

Which is not to say that Peter’s even necessarily in a situation like what Tony had been in. These things—dropping at inopportune moments—do happen. It’s part of the risk one runs when engaged in the lifestyle. You can do everything right and still end up with a nasty case of subdrop for a variety of reasons, not to mention the complicating factor that now that their lab time has bled into the weekend, there’s less opportunity for Peter to construct a realtively obligation-free bubble of a day or two after a scene, ideally with a partner or friend available, in the event that he does end up dropping. 

Peter’s got some color back by this point, and the shaking has stopped being quite so noticable. Tony offers a gentle smile as he takes the now-empty water bottle out of Peter’s hand.

“There, you’re looking a bit better already. You feeling any better?”

Peter nods and gives a weak smile/grimace in reply. “Yeah, a bit. Thanks, Tony.”

Back to Tony already? Perfect. “Glad to hear it. You’ve really got to keep an eye on that, though. You know how easily that super metabolism can run away from you.” Tony hopes he doesn’t sound too reprimanding, but it would be suspicious if he didn’t lecture Peter, at least a little bit, right? It has absolutely nothing to do with his own nurturing instincts refusing to shut up.

Peter huffs good-naturedly. “Yeah, I know. It’s just been a busy weekend.” 

“Happens to us all. So, you’ve got three options. We can rejoin the team pasta fest when you’re ready, I can have our food brought up to the lab and we can eat there, or if you’re feeling poorly still, you can head home after you’ve eaten at least half of what’s left of that candy.”

Peter fiddles with a couple of gummy bears in his lap, sticking them together and pulling them apart again a few times. “Can I…eat the candy and _then_ go eat pasta in the lab?”

Tony snorts a bit when Peter looks up at him hopefully through his eyelashes. “Yeah, of course. Good idea.”

Peter hums happily and goes back to shoving gummies in his mouth in new and exciting flavor combinations. 

In the elevator up to the lab, Tony has Friday send a message to the team, telling them that he and Peter got caught up in the lab and asking for their plates to be delivered up to them in a few minutes. Peter has finished most of the candy at this point, having moved on to some weird hazelnut things that are apparently Russian in origin having been smuggled in by Natasha a couple of weeks ago. Peter seems to have more or less evened out already, which is good news—for Peter, obviously, but also for Tony, who was admittedly having a difficult time holding himself back from feeding Peter the candies himself. 

He looks even better once they get to the lab, and better still when their food gets brought up by Steve five minutes later. They’ve already fallen back into lab work, so they set the food on an empty lab bench and wander over to it every once in a while to graze on their refilled plates. Tony tries his best to be subtle, but he works closer to Peter than he ordinarily would, finding excuses to briefly press up against his side, to hand him things directly, to sneak an extra piece of garlic bread onto his plate. At this point it’s probably a 50-50 split between trying to make Peter feel better and trying to reassure himself.

It turns out fine, all things considered. Peter heads home two hours later, appearing, for all intents and purposes, his usual self. Still, Tony can’t help himself when he hugs him goodbye; he pats him twice on the back heartily, pulls back and grasps him by the shoulders to look into his eyes. “Feel better. You know you can call me if you need me?”

Peter flushes slightly in embarrassment. “I know, Tony. Thanks.”

As he watches the elevator doors slide closed behind Peter, Tony hopes that he’s got someone to go back to who’ll look after him.

* * *

Peter is notably clear-eyed the next time he visits the lab a week later, and three days after that when he’s got a surprise day off of classes. In fact, it’s almost three weeks before Peter shows up spacey again, and although it makes Tony a bit nervous, they thankfully don’t get a repeat performance. 

It’s reassuring, really, that Peter didn’t allow the little mishap several weeks earlier to dissuade him from scening altogether. It also has Tony curious again. He desperately wants to know what Pete’s _deal_ is _._

And, well, he’s a nosey bastard, so he asks.

Not flat-out, of course, he likes to think he’s a little more elegant than that, but he certainly weasels it into an inocuous conversation intentionally.

“I mean, I love studying chemistry, but I don’t know what I’m gonna do with it, ya know. Spiderman doesn’t exactly leave time for grad school, but you kinda need an advanced degree to do any of the cool stuff.” Peter’s spinning around in his desk chair (or his gamer chair, as he calls it, despite it being a normal office chair and the computer on his desk having a strict no-games-where-you-science policy.)

“If it’s work you’re worried about, you know you’ll always have a position here.”

“I know, Mr. Stark. I’m just…thinking about the future, ya know. Making plans.”

Tony allows his eyebrows to raise. “The future, huh? You thinking about a family? Partner, kids, that sort of thing?”

Peter shrugs. “I dunno, I’ve been thinking about it. I’d love to have kids some day, but it’s not anything I’m hoping for, like, soon. I’ve got too much going on already.”

“Oh yeah? And what about a partner?” Tony pauses. “If you want to share, that is.”

Peter smiles wryly at him, but blushes all the same. “I mean, it’s kinda…complicated right now? I have a, uh, a partner but we’re not exclusive or anything. It’s still…casual, I guess.” 

Tony nods thoughtfully. So Peter has a partner, or a main partner at least, and possibly other additional partners who he sees on a semi-regular basis. Also, he’s presumably scening with one or more of these partners, if more than one exists.

“Casual’s fine, I did that for a few years.”

Peter scoffs. “More like a few decades, Tony. Be honest.”

Tony holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Yes, okay fine, smartass. But this partner, then, do you see that going anywhere? Do you like them enough to want to make it official someday?”

“No.” Peter’s response is quick and firm, and Tony is startled for a second, blinking in the resulting silence of the lab. He looks towards Peter with concern, who is quick to backtrack.

“No, I mean, I like him just fine, I just don’t see it going anywhere.” 

“Well, that’s okay too. As long as you’re happy.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Peter shrugs and turns back to his work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: There’s some shaky consent stuff in this fic, mostly involving unnamed and offscreen perpetrators. However, in this chapter Tony knows that Peter has been scening and acts on that information to help him. In the interest of true consent Tony should have informed Peter that he knew what was up right from the get go since interacting with him in a kink-adjacent way could be seen as engaging in a scene, but it’s one of those grey areas that I think could be argued either way. Tony did a good enough job rationalizing it for the fic, and Peter is not harmed by his choice to do so. 
> 
> I was going to post this later, but it was more edited than I thought, and I felt bad about not having Peter in the first part, so here you go! 
> 
> I’m not here to debate about shipping Tony and Peter, but be aware that their relationship in this fic is strictly platonic and will remain so. I wanted to use this as an opportunity to explore and represent one possible manifestation of a strictly platonic BDSM dynamic. I’ve done my best to not egregiously misrepresent BDSM in this fic, especially in regards to what goes on between Tony and Peter, but please don’t take this as instructions or advice on proper BDSM. It is a work of fiction after all, and sometimes entertainment must supercede accuracy.If you are looking for an accessible, entertaining, and queer-friendly resource to learn about sex, relationships, and BDSM, I highly recommend checking out the Dildorks podcast for actual factual information and instructions. 
> 
> Tell me what you think! Say hi! I'm on Tumblr at writeallday
> 
> Hugs ~Day

**Author's Note:**

> Peter's coming in next chapter, I promise! Also, the next chapter will be less angsty and will actually have dialogue, yeehaw. Just had to set it up, yannow? I'll get the next chapter up asap; expect it in the next day or two. LMK what you think! On here or on Tumblr: writeallday(dot)tumblr(dot)com [I'm still tryna figure out html to hyperlink and if you could see some of the work I turned in in my compsci class you'd forgive me for having a hard time]
> 
> I hope you enjoyed, see you soon! ~Day


End file.
